Lib Novel Page 6
“You like my new adornments?” He grins wider and pulls open his shirt and doublet. What used to be a smooth, paneled chest worthy of a young god is now a mass of twisting scars and knotted flesh. “I had a shitty healer, you see. She saved my life, but she couldn’t fix this. And before you ask—yes, it’s all over my body. Even my dick. I won’t show you that, though—it still works, but it’s so grotesque you’d faint.”
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. “But, Zevin—your beauty was never the best part of you. I liked you because you were smart, and funny—”
“And rich, and well-bred, and noble-born.” His upper lip curls. “I served you faithfully, and you threw me away. Tossed me out into the war, where I got fried by the fucking dragons. Now it’s your turn to suffer.” He nods to the tall soldier. “You have confirmation of her identity. Take her.”
Instantly I dart to the left, heading for the trees, but I’ve only taken a dozen steps when my bare foot impales itself on a sharp branch. I scream and stumble, unable to keep my balance, and as I crash onto my left shoulder, pain explodes through the joint. My abdomen goes into another series of dull, aching cramps, leaving my insides weak and wobbly.
It’s too soon after the birth of the eggs. My body is still recovering, nowhere near ready for such physical exertion.
One of the Vohrainians comes forward, yanks my arms together, and clasps manacles around my wrists. He jerks me to my feet and tugs sharply at the chain linked to my wrists. I have no choice but to stagger after him into the trees.
A last look over my shoulder shows Fortunix collecting his chest of treasure and taking to the sky. Much as I hate that dragon, my fear deepens once he’s gone, as if some small measure of protection left with him. Perhaps I was hoping he’d change his mind, but there’s no chance of that now.
The enemy soldiers hustle me through a narrow belt of trees and up a broad path bordered by crisply-trimmed box hedges, toward the entrance of a stately manor. I’ve been here before. It’s the ancestral home of the Harlowes.
So Zevin is identifying prisoners for the Vohrainians and letting them use his family home. Bitterness stings my tongue. This must be how Kyreagan felt when he learned of Fortunix’s treachery.
“Your mother once called this house ‘quaint.’” Zevin walks beside me, his tone conversational, but with a trace of venom. “It wasn’t a compliment, of course. She thought this manor was old, run-down, and inconveniently distant from the bustle of the city center. But my family had reasons for maintaining this residence, in addition to our townhouse within the capital.”
“Reasons?” I ask.
“Oh yes. There are certain private activities we enjoy. I’ve made my own share of life-changing memories here.” He gazes up at the building’s gabled peaks and narrow dormer windows. Smoke drifts from two of the chimneys, trailing away into the blue sky.
My wounded foot leaves wet, scarlet prints as I’m forced to mount the steps of the house.
“Are your parents home?” I ask. Perhaps Zevin’s mother and father would be more loyal to my family than he appears to be.
“Oh no, my parents fled the kingdom. Of course they killed Grandfather and Aunt Dara first, since they were both too old to make the journey. I should be glad they didn’t slit my throat as well. Mother and Father left me behind because I’m too noticeable, too grotesque for the new life they plan to begin.” Zevin steps aside as we enter the foyer and watches, smiling, while I’m dragged across the marble floor. I hear the clip of his boots as he falls in behind us, following me and my captors down a long corridor and through a thick door reinforced with strips of iron. Steps lead down into lantern-lit gloom.
I’ve never been down here. Didn’t even realize there was a lower level, a dungeon of sorts beneath the manor. My gaze skips from the worn pavers of the subterranean floor to the dark, splattered stains on the stone walls. Those dark splashes tell a tale about Zevin’s family that I’d rather not know.
The Vohrainian soldiers shove me into a large room, a cell whose gray stone bears more hideous stains. Metal loops and hooks are bolted to the walls.
The tall soldier attaches the chain of my manacles to one of the hooks and locks it in place. I have barely any leeway for moving my arms, and there’s not enough slack for me to sit down. I can only slump wearily against the wall for support.
After the soldiers leave the cell, Zevin Harlowe approaches me. The remaining tufts of his blond hair aren’t carefully coiffed like they used to be—they stick out wildly from his head. His eyes hold a glint of mad humor.
“Look at you,” he says. “The Crown Princess who always thought she was so good because she did a few servants’ chores. Fortunix told us you were taken to be a dragon’s whore. Did you let a dragon fuck you, Serylla?” He lays a hand on my stomach, which has shrunk somewhat, but is still more distended than usual. “Looks like you’ve been stretched out by dragon cock. I hope he tore your hole wide open. Spread your legs and let me see.”
“Lord Harlowe.” The tall soldier stands in the doorway of my cell, one hand on his sword hilt. “The King gave orders that no one was to touch the girl except him.”
“It’s my fucking house,” snaps Zevin.
A low rasp as the soldier slides the sword partway out of its sheath. “This house and everyone in it are subject to the word of the King of Vohrain.”
Zevin snarls a few curses, but he stomps out of the cell, past the soldier, and up the stairs. The tall soldier remains in the doorway, his helmet angled toward me.
“I’m in pain,” I tell him. “My foot is bleeding, and my stomach hurts. Please… if there’s anything you can do…”
The soldier closes the giant wooden door. A key grates and clicks in the lock, and booted feet walk away.
“Well… shit,” I whisper.
3
“What we’re doing—it’s called reconnaissance,” says Hinarax eagerly. “Two or three advance units sneaking in and scoping out an area when you don’t want to arouse suspicion with large numbers. It’s a human military term.”
“That’s not just a human term,” I tell him flatly.